


You Are All I Needed

by jaystarzfordayz (hellyesitsjayden)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, War AU, depressing Johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 09:26:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2383256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellyesitsjayden/pseuds/jaystarzfordayz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then you were gone, and my world turned to ashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are All I Needed

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a one shot contest, and it got an unexpected response... And my sister said it was definitely AO3 worthy? Anyways, it had a strange inspiration, but I enjoyed writing it. Cheers!

Everything is silent in the aftermath of the explosion. I should be hearing screams, gunfire. But I can't, and I think that it's worse. Without the confusion of my auditory sense, I can clearly see it all as it unfolds. Many of my fellow soldiers fell back, running with reckless abandon, ignoring their injuries and their pain, heeding only their black, suffocating fear. I only need to look into the eyes of those who pass nearest to me to see that their irises have been consumed by the spreading abyss of their pupils. Those who are unable to stand, either too disoriented or physically lacking what was necessary to complete such an action, crawl and drag themselves through the dirt. They are pitiful, like wounded animals that know they do not have the strength to escape the hunter. Mutilation is more unfortunate a fate than death. A few of the stronger ones are attempting to help the less fortunate , but I can see that it is no use. If they do not fall together, then the weaker is left either when he cannot go on or when the stronger cannot hope to survive without running away. It is nature. It is inevitable.

Then I curse myself for forgetting what little humanity I do have. My friend is either among the fleeing or the fallen. I have to find him. I need to know that he is safe and alive. John. I scream his name in the silence that engulfs me, but I receive no answer. My heart is in my throat. I feel fear, and it is a novel and unwelcome sensation. Where is John? Again I call him. Maybe he cannot hear me. After all, I imagine that outside of my realm of quiet exists deafening sound. So I search for him, examining the faces of those who pass me, identifying the bodies in the dirt. That one is too tall; this one is too narrowly build; those are brunet and red headed. Where are you, John?! I am always able to find you quickly. Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong. John. Over and over I call his name. I can feel the panic rising and eclipsing my reason, my faith in his safety.

And I feel rather than hear him in the void. Sherlock. He has heard me. Perhaps he is even quite near. I continue to call him now, because I need to hone in on his responses and him on mine.

"Sherlock."

This time it is more than an echo in my mind; John's voice falls faintly on my ears. Nothing else matters, and I call him again. John, my John. I will find you yet.

When at last I find him, I feel sick, and I begin to tremble. I feel betrayed by my body, but then again, I have been betrayed by my mind as well. There is so much blood. At first, it is difficult to determine the injury past the shredded and blood soaked fatigues. It's the femoral artery in his left leg, which I identify by the sheer quantity of blood lost there. That leg... is gone. It looks almost comical, John Watson with only 1.5 legs. It is entirely incomprehensible. And yet, it is true. Falling to my knees beside him, I take his filthy hand in my own, which is repulsive with grime and dust and blood.

"Sherlock," he gasps. His face is stark white against the scarlet that oozes from the shrapnel wounds in his cheeks. Something else is wrong; he struggles to breathe. I am quite certain he has a collapsed lung, though which it is hard to tell. But I do not want him to exhaust himself. He will be all right if he does not push his weakened body.

I shush him and gently cradle his head in my lap. "I've got you," I murmur to him, caressing the back of his hand with my thumb in an attempt to comfort him through the pain. "You're going to be fine, John. I'm going to get you out of here."

His lips twitch in a small, wry smile that I know causes him pain. "Don't be a bloody idiot, Sherlock, you of all people know I'm not going to make it," he wheezed, coughing weakly as he struggled to fill his remaining lung.

"Shut up," I tell him, my own voice smaller and more frightened than I wanted it to be. "We'll get through this together."

"No, Sherlock," John manages to say, "no."

"What do you mean, 'no'?" I demand, quickly dashing away the tear that has rolled down my cheek. I have not cried in a long time. I have not needed to. But now, I cannot stop. "Please, stay with me," I beg of him.

"I'm trying," he groans, grimacing.

He does not have long. I am smart enough to know this. I do not want to let him go though. I need my John. Without him, I am nothing. He is my other--and better--half.

When he suddenly cries out softly, I bite my lip and hush him gently. "What can I do?" I ask him through my tears. "What can I do, John?! How can I save you from this!" I do not mean to shout, but I cannot help it. I am so overwhelmed by my frustration and fear.

"Just stay by me," John whispers, the fingers of his free hand finding my pant leg and tightening on it. "I can do it so long as I'm holding your hand."

I know it's almost over then, because he closes his eyes and only focuses on breathing. After a pause, he speaks again, and it is so soft that I have to lean close to catch the words.

"I love you."

My throat constricts, and I can't stop the sob. "I love you too, John," I choke, and he smiles a little. Leaning closer, I press my lips gently to his and kiss him softly. As I do so, I feel his breath soft on my lips, and he is still. His hand releases its grip on the leg of my pants and falls limp.

"No, no," I murmur softly at first, but then my grief crescendos, and I'm screaming. Damn emotions. Everything would have been all right without them. I have made the mistake of caring again. And it hurts so much.

I scream his name until I cannot anymore and collapse over his body, sobbing. Oh, how my John has changed me. And there is no tomorrow without him. My only comfort as my hearing returns and darkness falls over the valley was that his last sensation had been of my love for him. I have served my purpose, and my soul has died with my John.


End file.
